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Posts from the ‘Musings and Insights’ Category

Apr 9

Table Time

It’s starting to be a thing again: families are gathering around a table at mealtime to talk and to find out what is going on in life. Now, this meal activity proceeds everyone placing electronic devices in a basket. It seems as if, slowly and quietly, society might be heeding the call of researchers such as Jonathan Haidt and rethinking how media is playing out in a family’s daily life.

I grew up with family dinners. We knew that at 5:30 the family had to gather, and we sat around the table. We talked; my father displayed humor by making faces, and it was funny. He was a serious man. I couldn’t do what he did with his face. After the meal we’d go outside until dark and play with the neighborhood kids. We made our own rules, and we worked out our differences with no adults present.

When my friend’s brother fell out of our tree at my house, she and I stayed put, and our mothers took care of it. We were scared because broken bones are scary things. Life went on, and it became an event that had happened. When I broke a bone while riding my bike at a friend’s house, her mother didn’t panic: she checked me out, and when my parents came to get me, they took me to the ER. Broken bones happen when kids learn and explore their universe. Her family had dinner around the table too. I think it made a difference in how some things got handled.

There were phones only in the family spaces, and maybe as we got older, we might have a phone in our room.

I think one of the things that happens as we converse as families and parents is that they know who their children are spending time with. Both sides learn to build trust, and that trust builds with each experience and, slowly, more freedom is given. Friendships are strengthened and, relationship by relationship, goodwill builds in homes, schools, and neighborhoods, and it can spread out from there.

We learn about holding differing views in our homes. When healthy family structures exist, differences are accepted and respected. Lively discussion can happen, and children can learn to test voicing opinions in a safe environment. I was fortunate to understand that my parents had differing political views, and they could discuss them and understand each other, and it was normalized. This was part of the conversation in my household. I can’t say the same thing for my paternal grandparents. Politics was off-limits. It wasn’t a healthy place to discuss many things.

I grew up without tech. We made tin-can phones with wire. We learned to type on a manual typewriter that operated on finger power. Stranger danger wasn’t a thing back then. Now, states pass “free-range laws,” and the kids need to know about safety and their communities. I knew all of that growing up: it was expected that I’d know how to navigate on my bike.  

You might want to argue that it isn’t as safe now. Really? Could there be media hype about stranger danger? Could parents be sheltering children too much? Are we stressing children with lessons and other activities to the point of it being a bad thing? Children need to have time to explore and to play! The fact is, most kids don’t really understand free play because it’s all scheduled.

I’ve seen a child in a therapy session not understand how to imagine or create. When I give them tools to create, they grasp onto it. They aren’t acting out what they see on a screen: they’re working through things in their own way and on their own terms.

I’ll also state that when there are healthy boundaries in a household, this can work really well. So, the question becomes, how do I enable healthy boundaries to happen in a dysfunctional situation? Let’s say you live in a place where the furnace is set to come on at 70° Fahrenheit, and it is to shut off at 75°. As long as things work, everything is normal. Peace and happiness are present. It works like this in families. The degree variance is like the rules, and as long as everyone holds to the rules, there is homeostasis. Go outside of the rules, and things can get bumpy. Bumpy isn’t pleasant. So, in a family, the more flexibility there is, the better things can be. A five-degree variance is much too narrow, and while it might work for heating, it won’t work in a healthy family. A family therapist can guide a family to reset the family thermostat, because sometimes you didn’t learn it in your own family, and it is never too late to make a change. Once you can have skills, healthy conversations happen. It is a learning process, and you will fail into success. Learning is all about making mistakes and getting up again.

So, there is one other thing about families I want to mention. Your family may not look like someone else’s. People live in different situations, and things like work schedules creep into things. Tech might not be an issue because you can’t afford tech in the home. Schedule a time to engage and check in. Whether it is low-income housing or a mansion, it’s all about committing to learn to talk to each other. It all boils down to flexibility and commitment.  

I now tell parents that I work with to restrict their media time and their children’s media intake. I suggest sit-down meals. These two things help in a few ways:

  1. It gets everyone talking to each other because you become focused on the conversation.
  2. It provides a structured place to learn proper table manners, and it serves as a teaching tool for real-world dining-out experiences.
  3. You have to ask to be excused after finishing the meal, so you also learn to sit with a conversation where you may not agree with stated views.
  4. You find out what is going on in each other’s lives.
  5. You learn that talking is about learning to understand the other person’s point of view, and to explore the why of their view.
  6. When you take these conversational skills out in public, you might find that you can build relationships where differing views can exist, and so your circle of friends expands in its diversity.
  7. You begin to build peace and understanding in the home and can take it out into the greater world.

Right now, what we need more than anything else is to talk to one another, and to build bonds of understanding and acceptance for each other.

Some of this might sound out-of-date. I’ll tell you it is working for clients, for friends, and others I know. It’s about table time.

Mar 26

On My Way to Somewhere Else (Revisit)

This post was originally published on December 9, 2021.

Losses in our lives happen in many ways, and my greatest loss happened while I was trying to get to somewhere else that wasn’t on my agenda, or at least not in print. It happened in a way I won’t forget: a walk downstairs to find an altered life. A note on the dinner table telling me where his body was. That was the part of the promise he did keep.

We write scripts for our lives, and when they are interrupted the jolt can be confusing and difficult to understand. While we’re making our way along the road, the demons interrupt our peaceful walk and give us the boot off our carefully manicured path into something more like sludge, mess, and unexpected confusion.

At first, we panic, and then we try to extricate ourselves from this place, only to find ourselves pulled further into the mess of the sludge. When we realize that we can best exit the sludge by remaining calm, relaxing, and working with it, we’re free to embrace it. We can then deal with the mess in this new place. We figure out that the best method for getting free from where we are now trapped is exploring it for alternative exit options. That is how most grief and loss journeys begin: a surrender to the unknown.

I got out of the immediate sludge state and realized that there was a mountain in front of me, and that I needed to go through it to reach the place I needed to get to. That was both a relief and rather terrorizing.

With the unwanted interruption to our lives, we forget where we were headed, focusing on the path before us that has become cluttered with boulders, fallen trees, and strange critters that inhabit the once pristine path we thought we were on, and realizing that we’ve been transported to a much different place altogether. Where are we? What is this about, and will it be a help or hindrance?

No, we’re not in Oz or anyplace like it, though a part of us may wish for ruby slippers that we can click to take us magically back to before we wound up wherever this is now. We don’t get the slippers. Instead, we receive a walking stick that will come in handy in turning over the rocks, giving us leverage to lift the heavy trees that block our route, and in testing the strange new critters to see if they are friend or foe.

It’s taken several minutes to construct this, and yet the descent into this place happens instantly. We’re just not aware that within seconds of hearing they’re dead, “I’m leaving you,” “I’m moving out to pursue…,” or whatever the loss is, we’re sent by our mind into this place. As we grapple with it in those first few moments, we realize that our control is gone. Will we ever be the same? Will our world ever feel the same?

The Answer Everyone Wants

In this place we ask: When will it end? And when will things return to normal? The honest answer that we eventually discover is that we’ll develop a new normal, discover a new life path, and renegotiate what our personal universe looks like and what it is filled with. We forget about the old somewhere that had held us captive and begin searching for a new somewhere else. The catch to this search is that things no longer work the way they once did. The topsy-turvy has flung us into the unknown. All we can do is thrash around until we find something to grab onto that feels stable. 

We start to learn that the tears, the missing, and the uncertainty will fade over time, and in their place the texture and quality of what is present in our lives changes. Slowly, we stop asking when and start focusing on the how to of this new place. This leads us to finding a support system, a new village of people that is populated with those who will become our new friends. They understand where we are! They’ve been in the sludge, gotten out, and faced their own mountain. They’ve dismissed some old village residents due to the fact that they left the village or are not able to attend to the needs in the village at this time. We find a therapist who speaks our language and we seek out spiritual direction, or stumble into another path altogether. As we gain strength and our concentration returns, we begin reading books and are able to question and act on those questions. 

This new place of discovery is exciting, scary, and wide open. Oh, the options that we can explore! Slowly, the places we were headed fade away, and we’re left only with new things to discover. 

You know how people say that we’ve changed? We have! If we do the work of grief, loss, and pain well enough, we reinvent ourselves. There are old things, new things, and a bunch of creation waiting to spring forth. It can all be good. In the meantime, the question we wanted answered disappears as we become involved in the process of creating new life within ourselves. New life and meaning are unique to each of us.

The tears and the missing are still present. They’ve taken on a new form and texture. For me, it was somewhere in my year three that I noticed the real change. How did this happen? It wasn’t about time; it was processing and a world view change. It is something we experience and understand due to the work we do around our grief, loss, and pain, effecting change deep within. 

Noticing the Gift

For some people, the loss and the grief that are encountered become a gift. What? How can this be? I’ll admit that on August 29, 2016, if you had told me I’d be typing these words in 2021, I’d have had said something to the effect of “You’re nuts!” I’m typing this and I know I’m not nuts. Telling someone at the beginning of the process that change will happen is counterproductive to the process. There are some “please do’s” and “please don’ts” that are essential to observe.

Relationships can trap us, cause us to shortchange ourselves, or make us second-guess what we want in our lives—to name just a few of the things that can happen. The fact that she cheated on you and didn’t want to work it out is sad. After the heartache passes, a new discovery of freedom comes.

He or she is now gone; the love you once had will always remain, and now you are asking new questions. You want something different from before, and finding it is a good thing. You haven’t changed; you’ve grown! You are beginning to trust your own knowing, and this is an essential component of finding the new place of existence.

The gift of the tragedy is not pleasant. We are called to understanding through the unveiling of new options that we truly have choices if look and access them in the present. It is what we find buried in the rubble that was once sitting out in the open, waiting for us to discover it for the first time. 

We couldn’t see it where we were because our understanding of our lives was focused on the life we had then. We weren’t stumbling along the path, attempting to find the new points of entrance into the new place that we need to get to.

I know some who have needed to step into employment for the first time in their lives and now report feeling fulfillment in a way they never have before. I know others who took the chance of a new career. Somehow, the lack of security allowed them to risk big! For others, it is doing the same thing with fresh new insight into the things they value most. For me, it resulted in several things. My favorite is that I returned to school for a certificate in spiritual direction. I love the program! Would I have discovered this had I not been widowed? NO! It took me moving to a new place and finding a new path to walk to do what I’m doing now.

Along the way, we employ new navigation strategies, discover our “rose rooms,” and come to an understanding that the interruption that occurred on the way to somewhere else, while tragic, has become a touchstone in our lives.

Mar 19

The Civility of Kind Words

This year, as part of Lent, I gave up swearing because I noticed I was doing too much of it. I didn’t like what I was hearing my own mouth say. Now, swearing has caused me to become aware of another something in society.

I’m getting irritated by people using the word “bitch.” I’m getting annoyed by the disrespect it shows to women. I’m also saddened that women tolerate being called bitch. So, I’m going to voice my thoughts.

If a woman stands her ground and asserts her needs, she is often called a bitch, even though what she is doing is the healthy thing for herself. People, an assertive woman should be celebrated! She should be held up as an example! She knows what she needs, and will go to the mat for it.

I don’t respect a man who calls a woman a bitch. There is never a reason to do that, and in my mind, it only proves to me that the man involved isn’t very aware of who he is and is only showing his disrespect for women. Calling a woman a bitch is also a form of verbal abuse.

The fact is that the use of the word has become so common that is has lost its meaning. Society is downgrading itself to a new low.

In our rush to become cool and hooked into social media, are we rushing too fast and not realizing what we’re leaving behind? Civility.

Authors such as Jonathan Haidt have been commenting on the damage of media as it relates to children and adolescents. I’m seeing it in my practice with younger adult clients and their use of media. I’m hearing it as the person uses blanket terms to talk about someone. When I ask them to slow down and identify how they feel, I often hear: “I don’t know.” And yet, when someone does slow to identify what they are feeling, they are pleasantly surprised by what they discover. People have sped things up so that they no longer have the insight they could have. It is as if people don’t want to slow down and think. It has become easier to distract ourselves from our own personal truth.

I’ll give you an example. I can easily pick up on when someone has a search going on during the therapy session. Distraction comes in many forms. The fact is, we’ve become a society that wants it now, and can’t wait if we can’t have it instantly. What happened to the slow-cooked soup? We go with the flow, and we don’t stop to think about calling a woman a bitch because now it is just done. During a conversation, we aren’t focused on the present but distracted by needing to know something RIGHT now. Here’s a news flash: Your being on the screen when I’m in a conversation with you is rude. Just like calling a woman a bitch shows great disrespect for others.

Society has become too engrossed in the fast fix to stop, put the phone, the pad, or the computer on hold. We’ve forgotten the human equation. We’ve forgotten about giving each other the courtesy of time. It makes me think of what Crichton said in Jurassic Park. To summarize: the technology exists but should it be used? Don’t get me wrong about tech: I’m the owner of a Mac, an Air, an iPhone, and the watch. They are tools! In a conversation I set them all down, and I listen to the person in front of me. And now, I’m in the place of teaching others to show some respect. It is about the person. And yet, you see disrespect on the screen. It’s that some writers are displaying poor writing skills, and if the writer doesn’t have good verbal skills, they can’t convey in a script the appropriate emotions along with the proper social skills. What winds up being portrayed is something that is less accurate. That is what becomes the norm due to the fact that people believe what is on the screen over reality. It makes me think of the mother asking her kid: “So, if everyone walked over the edge, would you?” The fact of the matter is that, in many ways, we’re allowing each other to walk over the edge without giving much thought to our actions, and parents are allowing their children to walk off the cliff! As Maya Angelou stated: “When you know better, you do better.” Society, take note: We can, and must, do better. Researchers such as Brené Brown and Jonathan Haidt are pointing out where we’re messing up.

It seems like society has lost track of what healthy norms are! It is time to know better, and do better in so many ways. It is time to not rush to judgement about “the other person.” It is time to slow down, breathe, and ask ourselves if we want to be treated as poorly as we might be treating others.

Do we really want to have our words work for, or against us?

Over a decade ago another woman called me a bitch. I stopped her and explained to her that while she thought she was being socially cool, I did not appreciate the remark. I am not a bitch. That is disrespectful to me, and to all women. It shocked her. She had education. What she didn’t have was good social education. I became a parental role model for her because I didn’t let her calling me a bitch slide. No one had ever taken the time to educate her about that social nicety. If you don’t know, then now you are learning.

I’d like to propose that we think of civility in terms of letting it begin with each of us. “Let there be civility on earth, and let it begin with my words, and actions.”

Jan 15

Singing With One Voice

Lately I’ve turned on the news to see more evil than good in the world. It sucks us all into a place of despair.

Grief and pain are not easy to witness, and to be honest, they cause us to question the why of it all. And so, this last week’s therapy sessions were filled with checking in with clients about how they were being affected by the needless violence occurring in the USA. How can we not cry? How can we not feel the sorrow deep in our souls?

A minister friend of mine announced on Facebook that she would hold a service so that people could gather in community on Saturday. If I were in the US, I would attend so that I could offer support to those in need. I’m here, and a good seven hours ahead, so I’ll be sleeping. I think I’ll pass on words of support anyway.

I can’t turn away from this sadness.

What do you do when the sadness becomes so intense, and the violence becomes something that we can’t ignore?

I used to swing a sledgehammer when I was younger: I put it down in exchange for a better way of resolving issues. That way is peaceful thought.

The older I get, the less I want to be reactive, and the more I’ve healed from the action on the battlement, the more my world view changes. It isn’t that I don’t want to see change: it is that I realize that I’ve screamed at enough people to know that screaming won’t fix it, and some people can’t stand conflict.

Conflict is a reality of life. Conflict pushes us into harsh realizations that change must happen in order for us to move forward. Conflict asks us to become honest with ourselves, and others. Honesty moves us forward to new understandings. Once we know a better way, we are required to follow where it leads us. To not follow it is as if we fail ourselves.

When I put the sledgie down, I didn’t turn away from the part of me that wanted to see change. I discovered that I could do things in a gentler manner. It hasn’t been easy, and I’ve messed things up more than once. Peace isn’t easy. Peace is one of the hardest things we work for, and as mentioned above: peace is not the absence of conflict. If we do it right, the hard conversations bring change and growth for everyone.

Here I sit, getting this out so that it will get posted. What’s to be done with disagreement? Ultimately, we all need to end the rhetoric, put down our words of criticism, and find the words of strength and agreement in each other.

We’ve all suffered the damage caused by the unrest in this world. We’ve all suffered the pain of loss in some form. Isn’t it time we each put down our sledgehammers, open out ears, and listen more than we speak?

I’m not wanting to recite the violence in the world that is happening right now.

I’m wanting to recognize that peace begins in our own homes and neighbourhoods. It spreads from there. Put down your sledgehammer and stop the violence with words and acts of understanding. The politicians and warriors might not get this, but you and I can! Let there be peace on this earth, and let it begin with an act of listening. This song says it well.

Let’s sing with one voice.

Jan 1

If it’s January, it Must Be Resolution Time (Revisit)

This post was originally published on January 2, 2023.

It is January first, and I’m getting a jump on my Monday. I’m doing it because my January third is going to be slightly cluttered with an eye appointment. Here it goes!

I was logged into Facebook to check on pages I manage and spotted people I know posting their New Year’s resolutions. It got me thinking about change, and why this stuff seldom works the way people envision resolutions working.

The first thing is, why wait for the new year? If it really needs to be done, do it now—don’t put the thing off. 

My next observation—or question—would be, Why do diets begin on Mondays? Shouldn’t they start in the mind, on the next shopping trip, or in an online order?  

My third musing would be that people make resolutions but seldom lay the groundwork to establish successful life change. How do we each lay that groundwork? What does it take to do the work that will establish change in our lives?

It begins in stages: the first stage is to come to an understanding of what the real issue is. I’ll use a diet for the example, though most any example could work. I’ll use my own diet journey.

Often a person wakes up to their personal reality, sees themselves in the mirror, and shudders at the sight that is reflected back to them. The realization of the pounds that are now present isn’t a happy one. You might have a range of clothing sizes, and some of those sizes might never be worn again. You hold on to all of the sizes in hope that “someday” you will fit into those jeans you wore fifteen years ago. I didn’t have that issue because moving to Europe is all about weight, and getting it on the boat. I had to give clothes I was wearing, and not wearing, to someone who could use them right then. I’m glad that the choice was made for me.

In 2006 I realized that I felt awful, and I didn’t like my reflection in the mirror. I felt ugly, frumpy, and unattractive. We purchased a treadmill so that I could walk inside, and I hoped that walking would help me take the weight off. Four years later my “goal” had not been achieved, and I was miserable. In 2011, after years of back pain that began in adolescence, I made the decision to have a breast reduction. That was a good choice on my part. Talking to my husband about the decision I was making was a process. He had the concern of things not turning out right. They did. The reduction enabled me to walk easily, and to feel better while doing chores. The “bench,” as I thought of it, was gone. Wow, was that a game changer! I also began to win at taking the weight off. Having a couple of kilos gone in one day gave me hope! Maybe I could do this thing.

All the tears I cried, the times when Jon had to hear me grapple with the issue that it was taking so long to drop the weight, now seem like an eternity of days gone by. That was one kind of looking and digging to get to the root cause of my food issues.

There is something to be said for feeling good, and feeling like you are winning at something you want. After a decade, I was wearing smaller sizes; I was winning the battle, or so I thought. I was doing the outer work. What about the inner work? 

My health insurance covered a dietitian, and she was helpful. It took a conversation about doctors being vigilant about the Body Mass Index (BMI) to turn the entire weight loss process around for me. Wowzah, had I fallen into a nasty trap!

I thought I’d done all the inner work as I began to understand that in my genetic heritage of deities, a love of sweets from two grandfathers and my mother had caused me to deal with sugar like alcoholics deal with a drink: one is never enough. This sent me spiraling into a new level of self-discovery. It was unbearably painful. I engaged in a dance, and while the weight was coming off, my eating and I were doing a wild rumba. All the years that I’d focused on BMI had held me back from focusing on feeling good. I had to contemplate how I might have bought into the diet myth, and the body image of fitting back into a size 6–8. Intellectually, I understood that there were things I needed to do. In 2021 I crossed into a new zone: the I’m-happy-with-who-I-am-and-what-I-see-in-the-mirror zone. It was a massively delightful discovery. It also lifted a huge burden of non-reality off of me. Now it was about management.

I recall the day clearly. I was sitting on a stool, getting dressed and taking a look at myself. No, my stomach wasn’t model flat. I would never have that EVER again. My arms were OK, not perfect but good enough, and my calves, they were still wonderful. Throughout my life my calves were the one body part that always looked great. I took time to reflect on this wonderful factoid. My thighs really were OK, and my face had thinned out. I realized in that moment I would never see a size 6 or 8 again. 

Then I began to think about how I really felt inside. I felt good, and as I realized this fact, I began to look deeper. Why was I stuck in the weight loss mode? I came to understand that I didn’t need to go there. A size 10–12 was perfectly fine. At my age it also felt like I could maintain that size.

Healthy isn’t about the perfect body. Ultimately it is about feeling good at where we are. It becomes a process of cutting ourselves some slack, offering ourselves the same grace and generosity we tell others to treat themselves with. In all the inner work I spent time doing over the years, I realized that I, too, had cut myself some slack and offered up a huge healthy serving of grace and generosity to myself. In 2022 I sat on the stool, looked at myself, and smiled. Yeah, I’m good with her!  

Resolutions are fulfilled when we lay a foundation of inner work, dig deep, and discover the generous helping of self-love we are serving ourselves. We make peace with the demon within. We grant ourselves the insight that the real work takes time and is about honoring ourselves over what we think we want. The question we must ask at the beginning of any goal or resolution journey is, What do I really need, and why?

It took me from 2006, a lot of treadmill and conversation time working with a professional, and a real hard look in the mirror to come to understand that what I wanted (getting back to a 6–8 size) was not what I needed. What I needed to do was to like—and love—the reflection of the 10–12 sized woman who sat on the stool. It doesn’t matter the size or the kilos/pounds that I carried. I started this journey thinking size and BMI. What matters most is that I got healthy. What matters most is that I’m enjoying where I am and can manage life where I’m at without my body doing the yo-yo cycle.

2023 is starting off with some real peace of mind. I’m good with this.

Dec 4

The Fuck Loop

Author’s note: I wanted to generate an image of a child being yelled at by an adult, and it seems that ChatGPT did not want to produce such an image, as it it abusive. Good for ChatGPT.

It was 2012, and I was sitting in the dining area of the Loo Erf. A woman in her twenties who was becoming a friend called me a bitch. I informed her that the term bitch was not something I viewed as anything but a slur. She didn’t get it, and I had to explain the old meaning to her. She still didn’t get it. Just as no man should be called a stud, no woman should be called a bitch. I want respect for all human beings.

What we say matters, and how we communicate matters even more. It will always matter because the expression of emotions and communicating what we really mean to others can either build a person up or rip into them and destroy their self-image.

I’ve been involved in conversations about the use of the words shit and fuck wherein the proponents of their use say that intelligent people swear. Maybe some people with high IQs swear; however, they aren’t the ones who have high IQs in other areas. It seems that society’s IQ is dropping rapidly.

One of my husband’s ex-girlfriend’s family used to say that hell and damn were emphasis words. I can go along with that; however, it is the use of fuck that I have the biggest issue with. I will admit that holy shit is comical, and shorthand for the moment in which one must catch their breath to process some amazing factoid or happening. But it is followed up with other words that are move descriptive.

Why do we use such words? Most people I see in therapy might start out using fuck as a shorthand to express what they can’t express in a healthy way. It takes some digging in the iceberg of the mind to get to the real words, and when we’re frustrated, we might not even be able to say that. Then what happens is “shit” or “fuck” get blurted out into the air. They hang there as if to say to the air, “There has to be more to this than I’m saying.” If we’re in an empty space, no one hears us. If there are people present, and it is directed at someone, damage is done. What if it is a child?

In a way, shit and fuck are the modern version of spanking a child for what we view as wrongdoing. We now understand that corporal punishment does not teach the person, adult or child, to change a behavior in a positive manner: it teaches someone to get better at not getting busted for the poor behavior, and it teaches fear. It creates feelings of worthlessness and low or no self-respect. The fallout from this is that people can develop low or no respect for others.

I remember the one time I got spanked. It was back in the 1960s, and I stuck my tongue out at my mother. I was heading out the door to school, and I was told that when I got home that day, I’d be getting a talking to. I don’t remember what my father said: I do remember that he laid his hands on me. It was only once, and I felt awful. It dug into my seven-year-old tender soul. It changed things. It was poor parenting. I got the lecture that evening, and I don’t remember what was said. What I remember is the spanking with his hand. Did it teach me anything? No. I suppressed my feelings because they weren’t going to be heard. When you aren’t able to get the words out as a child, what can you do? Slowly, you learn to hold it inside, and then you grow up, and yelling at the world is what you’ve learned.

Looking back on that incident as an adult, I was not even able to form the words “I’m angry at you mom!” If a parent can hear those words from a child, they can then move to help the child express and resolve the issue in a space of safety.

Without the words and the ability to work in a higher arena, you have a child who sets you off. And let’s say the child is two or three, and all of a sudden you are calling them a little fuck or a little shit. You are yelling at them. First off, no one likes being yelled at. We should never be hit by anyone. And here you are standing in your kitchen, or the grocery store, calling an innocent child a little fuck or shit. We condemn spanking, and if we saw it in public, we might want to report abuse to the proper agency. Why not with the words we use? They can be just as stifling to emotional growth.

What gives us the right to cross such a fragile boundary? There is not a good answer for this. We don’t have that right.

The right we do have is to haul ourselves into therapy and work through the damage that was done by those who created the mess in the first place. We have the right and the ability to do some deep soul work, and we have the ability to learn to find the real words. We can discharge trauma and come to understand that there are better ways to express what we feel. It is about digging into the iceberg below the anger to put real words to what is going on into use.

We also have the ability to apologize for words that damage.

What all of this feels like once we get a handle on ourselves is a calmer self. You might find yourself with a new kind of “keep calm” thought. Calm, and think about what is being felt, and why. Counting might stop the short-term knee-jerk response. Using our words on ourselves teaches us that we can solve problems by ourselves in effective ways! We then build up the positive stuff that reinforces that good feeling in our brains about our ability to do the harder things of living. Simply stated, the above stated happening becomes a learned skill, and all of this because we got words that work, and took ourselves out of the fuck loop.

Nov 27

Revisiting Our Hardwiring (Revisit)

This post was originally published on April 30, 2024.

Author’s note: I’m involved in a book project that is requiring me to submit one chapter on the idea of perfection. This is huge, and I’m going to write about some of what I’m musing about today.

Today’s meditation was one of exploration. I began by asking about why humans are hesitant to include those who are disabled. My path of thought led me to question many things.

Animals may kill a defective offspring. Maybe they smell it, see it, or somehow sense it, and then they kill. As humans, we judge our species based on different criteria. We struggle to accept humans who are diverse.

We run from diversity as if it were a disease that it isn’t. We struggle; as humans we are born hardwired to fear diversity. What we fear we push away or shun. Like animals, we react rather than question.

A doctor friend once told me that back when he was in medical training, they didn’t teach doctors how to properly react with the parents when a disabled person was born. They handed the newborn to the parents and sent them home, only to have the concerned parents show up at the pediatrician’s office with the disabled baby, where they’d experience the same attitude. Things have gotten better, but we still push away what we as humans can’t cope with.

It is a process that makes sense but doesn’t make sense at all. There is Enneagram theory that supports the concept that we all begin as type six, and then slowly move out and around the circle to other types. Type six souls have a fear component in their makeup, whereas type eights lack this fear. Eights have fears: we just deal with it differently. Humans are wired to fear diversity. Can we change as humans to evolve into people who can learn to not fear other humans?

There are more type sixes than any other type on the Enneagram. While I might want a type six in a crisis where we run out of crazy survival stuff, I don’t want a six who hasn’t done their work on themselves in other situations. I digress.

We tolerate diversity, and in that tolerant space we still want sameness. We thrive in sameness, and when there is failure to thrive, we label it abnormal, stick it in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM), and many times tell the mother that she’s doing it wrong, or that the baby isn’t “right,” and try to move on. Meanwhile a little human needs help.

Jon and I had a kitten who couldn’t get the milk she needed from her mother. Jon fed the kitten, who we named ‘Roo. She bonded with Jon, and we adopted out the mother and kept her. ‘Roo grew into a beautiful cat who loved us and the other kittens we adopted. From ‘Roo I learned to love in new ways.

Humans bond with all types of critters but not all types of humans. We are like animals who are selective in who they allow into their space.

Over the past forty years, we’ve begun a movement to change all of this. This morning during meditation, I began to wonder if we can change from fearful to naturally curious and wanting to know about the differences and embrace them joyfully. 

I want to live in a world where I’m understood. I want to live in a world where the questions I get are ones that lead to that understanding instead of more intolerance. I’m confronted by the human condition: fear.

Here in The Netherlands, the word “revalidation” is used when someone must recover from injury or stroke. The word means to be made acceptable again. It is no different than saying rehabilitation in English. We value a certain level of acceptability, and we attempt to have conformity. While societies choose to punish the nonconformist, those of a different color, religion, economic status, the LGBTQIA+ community, and the disabled are separated from many in society.

A quick search on Google shows that the Han Chinese are the largest race in the world. Other facts that turned up are that the U.S. still thinks that it is the world. And this is not good for the human condition.

My Monday meditation has taken me to a place I would have rather not gone. Is there hope for us as a species? I suppose if I could raise Mr. Darwin from the dead, he’d tell me that the human condition is set, and that evolution will occur, and we will all evolve, and some of us will be wiped out.

I think I’d tell Mr. Darwin that while we are evolving, we’re devolving. While children are becoming more tech savvy, many are losing the ability to form human relationships, and relationships are what it’s about. If we fail to teach children to put down the tech and look people in the eyes, we’re not evolving.

Tolerance is one thing. Understanding and acceptance of what causes us to fear is another thing.

I wouldn’t change who I am because my disabilities have been a part of that process. I’m happy with who I am. The problem is that society doesn’t fully understand me.

Humans are hardwired in a weird or confusing way.

Oct 9

They’re Leaving the Table

Yesterday I spent my day writing a post. Today I need to rethink it.

Sunday, I spent over two hours talking with my younger brother. It was about our family, and then it morphed into family in general.

I’ve spent time thinking about the days of the past, and I’m realizing as I gather my thoughts that the days of the past weren’t so good for everyone.

I’m a product of my parents, and the boomer generation. My parents lived in a simpler time and yet were closely connected to two world wars and the Depression. This affected how parents raised their children. While others I knew got cars, and credit cards, I didn’t have that experience. I grew up in a middle-class home and lived a simple life with little travel. But we never went without the essentials.

My parents had talked before they married about the option of my mother working versus staying home full time. They chose the one-income option. This turned out to be the choice that enabled my mother to be at home with my younger sister, who had cardiac issues. It was the right choice.

It also meant that we learned things that other children didn’t get a chance to learn in the same way.

I learned to dress up, go out to eat, and display proper table manners in public, and my mother didn’t have to deal with her kids having a meltdown in a store. It was a different time. It was a time during which there was more social and familial civility. We gathered for family dinner and ate what was served up. That was the plus side.

When I think about the not-so-good-days of the past, I think about all the suppression that was occurring in so many homes. The song “Saturday Morning Confusion,” recorded by Bobby Russell, keeps going through my head. This wasn’t my family; it was many families. This thought causes me to return to all the secrets that were held by my generation and older generations: the physical, emotional, sexual, and other abuse that got hidden because bad things didn’t happen to good children, or in nice families like yours and mine. Oh, what lies were told! The reality of it all is that the family isn’t what it once was. My generation, like my parents and those before, didn’t tell the secrets of that past, and so they festered until the 1980s rolled around. What good old days?

Let’s face it. As the above song speaks of it, Daddy tells his children that Daddy is ill after going out for a beer with the boys—a beer that went into several beers—and now he’s dealing with a hangover instead of enjoying the kids he loves. Meanwhile, Mom is trying to make it all good. It wasn’t good then, and the kids had to deal with the issue of Dad drinking, even though he knew he shouldn’t have gone out with the guys. The confusion of Saturday is that kids were forced into dealing with dysfunctional parenting, and the show was the break from reality.

How it Worked

There was a time when conversations happened around a dining room table, and we’d learn to hold differing points of view and remain civil with each other.

Children learned to listen, and to explore differing viewpoints, and while it might have gotten heated, it would remain civil (well, in mostly functional families). People held respect for each other (well, for the most part—like I said, in families that understood healthy boundaries).

Children can’t be guaranteed that their parents will have the tools to raise them to think and to become peacemakers and tolerant. We’ve lost the ability to communicate with each other and to hold differing views.  

Researcher Jonathan Haidt nails the issues down in his multiple books that cover the effects of social media and the smartphone on Western societies’ children and adults.

Families have left the dinner table for life in cars as they run from lesson to lesson to create the child that might look good on paper for the application that will hopefully get them into higher education. But the child is rude and spoiled, as well as anxious. The result is a child who has little respect for others, or the ability to manage themselves in life.

OK, we’re not sweeping the issues that were once swept under the carpet or tossed into pretty box concealers to not be discussed anymore. We’re not holding conversations.

Now the concealment is all about a different type of neglect, and the old abuses are still present because we haven’t wiped them out. I think Bobby Russell needs to add some verses to that piece of music.

We’ve become connected to devices and disconnected from each other.

Did the damage of Covid and children being cut off from each other help or hinder? Did it help our families?

My point is that the family is dismantling itself, and that means society is coming apart because we’re not able to hold conversations like we once could.

If we can’t talk in our homes, and learn to hold civil discussions at the dinner table, how will we do it in classrooms or boardrooms? How will we come together as we must to grapple with society’s need to come together? We scream for world peace, and yet we can’t set our smartphones down to smile and engage with the person next to us while out and about. Children might be texted to come to the table rather than being a part of getting things on the table—if that even happens.

Let Op!

At this point in time, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had close calls at a train station because someone is not watching when they’re out and about. If I get bumped, my white cane that should serve as a warning is disregarded. I’ve stopped being polite. “Let op!” means watch out or look out or pay attention—you get the English idea of the Dutch term. “Let op!” is now my response to rude travellers glued to phones. More confusion, and this is why I’m not able to be sure I’ll be safe in a train station.

This is about two things: parenting a generation and setting some common-sense boundaries, as well as manners for people.  

As a therapist, I shouldn’t take things too far. As a member of society, I’m excused.

As a therapist, I hear the sad tales of families that don’t work, people seeking a healthy relationship and hoping to get it all fixed. The solution is conversation on all levels. It begins with one person saying hello and smiling at someone they don’t know. Maybe, just maybe, we can get to less confusion.

Oct 1

Ripples

A woman screams a deep and damaging phrase to her partner, and he responds in kind, hurling at her his own demeaning phrase. It goes on for minutes until, worn out, they both turn away from the argument. Though they apologize and make up, the damage is done. There is now a ripple in the pond, and it is spreading outwards. You can’t take words back. It doesn’t work that way. Words said in anger damage the soul.

Apologizing can help, and yet I’ve come to understand that the words may never fully be gone. We’re each human, and as such, we can’t wipe out our memory. Short of a medical catastrophe, the memories remain, and the words that were spoken continue to spread out in the pond of life. There is no taking them back.

I got thinking about all of this while dealing with someone’s actions that affected my life, and several others. In this case, it was an event that sparked things off. The consequences of that period of time have spread ripples on the pond. A rock got thrown into the water, and the mess will never completely go away. Just like the couple who are fighting, and who really aren’t using their heads to think through what their words and actions will mean, the ripples spin out of control in all directions.

I’ve learned to let things die down, and then go in and salvage what can be salvaged from the damage.

There is no good way to clean up in a pond where the ripples have spread out to parts unknown. That pond might have other sources where the water enters and exits, causing what might have been seen as just a wee bit of damage to become an ugly mess; looking at it becomes the stuff that nightmares are made of.

With years and the wisdom that comes from living longer, we can learn to clean things up in a better way. With that comes the realization that there are consequences for foolish choices and behavior that, if we’d kept our heads together, we might have done differently.

What do you do about the ripple? How do you sit with pain? How do you begin to break the cycle of familial violence?

On my desktop there is a folder that holds a great deal of pain. It contains writing that made up posts presented on this blog. I avoided going to these places until I realized that not going there was making things worse. I came to realize that I had to take the risk that healing some deep wounds would entail, or else choose to not move forward in my life journey. There are times when going through it is the only way to get beyond the damage that ripples and other life obstacles have caused us. Change is hard. The big issue with some of this is that if, for example, families pass down their dysfunction to the next generation, it has a way of becoming larger, and as it grows, helplessness develops. This is why breaking the cycle of poverty is so difficult. It is why breaking the violence in a family system is such a challenge. This is why we, as humans, want to avoid pain, and when we’re in emotional pain, we become desensitized to the pain, and think that a life without this deep, horrible pain is a fairy tale, as if we’re wanting unicorns to appear. What is really happening in practical terms is that we’ve gotten so used to being in pain that we can’t see how we’re being affected in negative ways. Emotional pain has a language of its own. Sometimes we can only relate to someone if they speak the same messed-up dialect that we learned. This doesn’t stop the cycle of dysfunction: it causes it to thrive. 

You and I both know that unicorns and other fanciful creatures do not exist. What does exist is a pond where ripples spread out. To break the flow of the cycle, we have to create the desire to step into the body of water with both feet and take the first step forward. Doing the first step confuses things, and we can begin to create new patterns in our lives that enable us to sit with the pain constructively. And, as I keep telling people, it’s hard work, and not for wimps. Stop the ripple.

The practical side of stopping the ripple is to find a therapist that understands you and that you can connect with. This may require some time and research. To do the work might not take as long as the search itself. On the other hand, a good therapist will be able to help you to figure out what issues you need to explore that you aren’t seeing on the surface of things. Things can get pretty murky in the ripple.

The fact is that the ripple might seem dormant when it is actually teeming with life that we have become oblivious to.

The ripple didn’t happen in a short time period. This means that shutting it down will most likely mean overturning all the rocks you need to look under that are in the pond. This might take some time.

What this process teaches us is that, while there aren’t unicorns, there are realistic solutions when we thought that nothing could be done. We no longer seek the unicorn; we seek the open doors that allow us to pass into new places. This isn’t magical; it’s hard work. The doors may seem closed at first glance, and then they open.

Speaking for myself, I’d say that I just do what needs to be done. If I speak professionally, I’ll say that it is about conquering fear. Ripples in our lives stop when we dare to interrupt the flow of things, and contemplating doing this can bring up all kinds of angst in our minds.

Change is scary. It is the great unknown, and it is an existential issue. When we move towards change, we are risking something unfamiliar. We’re used to our warm blankets and fuzzy slippers, and disrupting the ripple requires us to do the hard thing. Giving up old ways of thinking and being in our lives is scary, hard, and uncertain. I get why people don’t want to take the risk, but I’m saying that it is a worthwhile risk. It may sound like I’m talking unicorns. What I’m talking about is a new and better way of greeting your life… without ripples.

May 20

Where Were You When… ? (Revisit)

This post was originally published on July 28, 2022.

On July 27, 1977, my life stood still as I watched my younger sister fall to the ground dead. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and we were in Paradise, California, at the 76 gas station. During the next two or three hours, word spread in our church community. People would later tell me where they were when they heard the news. No one asked where I was: I was living it.

That was forty-five years ago! The memory is still present, but the pain and trauma of what happened that sleepy summer afternoon stand in my mind; the wound of that past experience healed but will never leave.

To this day, those who knew Joyce remember where they were and what was happening. They tell me where they were, but they don’t ask where I was when it all went down. The code of “don’t ask” slammed it all shut. They don’t need to know. To this day, I don’t know what was said about where my mother and I were. We witnessed it all in its horror.

The truth is that our trauma was not for public consumption. My younger brother never got to say goodbye to her. I left with two cousins for school, and he was now home alone having to adjust to being an only child—when that wasn’t the plan. You never plan for something like this, and yet I had thought about it because I knew she could die.

Her death messed things all up. We had to re-group, re-think, and adjust to life with no Joyce. Forty-five years later, the memories of people telling me where they were surface. Today is her death anniversary.

My mother and I talked about it when we were older and had distance from it. Death was riding with us that day and somehow my mother knew it. She thought it was going to be her that would die. We finally talked it out and realized that we were glad we’d finally said the words—late as they were to our journey of loss.

The truth is we all remember the “Where were you when…?” question. Those of us who are old enough know where we were when JFK, MLK, RFK, and others were brutally cut down. We remember the Apollo 11 landing, Challenger, the other shuttles, and now school shootings. We stand as witnesses to personal and societal pain.

We’ve taken to gathering at impromptu memorials to share as a community, and yet there is still stigma around personal trauma.

We’re not quite there yet with personal trauma; it’s like the accident that everyone drives by slowly in hopes of seeing the gory stuff. It’s about people wanting to be voyeurs into pain that they would not want seen themselves.

The catch here is that the “Where were you when…?” question enables us to talk through our own trauma around the incident. So many knew my sister, so many loved her, and no one had expected her to drop dead in a phone booth in Paradise, CA. So, the collective mind was collectively blown. Because of the collective trauma, we process it how we can.

For whatever reason, all of this came up forty-five years after the fact. I now live in The Netherlands, I’m far from family, and so, I’ll put this up instead.

Today I purchased flowers for myself and they turned out to be her favorite color: yellow. I’ll enjoy them for her.

I look at the clock and think about the fact that at this time forty-five years ago, we all had to eat. Some of us went for pizza and some stayed home at my aunt and uncle’s place. I went for pizza. I know, weird. The next day, my parents and my younger brother got into my father’s car and drove home and planned the service and all that went with it. Where was I? I was assigned to clean the house and so, like the dutiful daughter I needed to be, I vacuumed and answered the door for people paying respects. I think I’d rather tell people where I was when JFK was assassinated. Where were you when…?

May 7

Dancing with Brokenness

This year I’ve had the opportunity to serve in a leadership role. I’ve been doing this role for several years, and this year I’ve become more prominent.

I thought it would be more of the same, and as it turns out, it is teaching me new life lessons. I’m not opposed to learning them though. I’m pleasantly surprised that I’m learning not only about others—they are teaching me about myself.

As a therapist, people come to me broken, and as a spiritual leader, people can present in the same way: broken in the soul. Yet I don’t see someone in that way at first. I’ve always maintained an effort to see the whole within, and I’m learning that sometimes, to see the whole, you must also understand the broken.

And so, it has been my task to open my eyes to the broken in order to heal it into wholeness.

Some time ago, I wrote a post about one such person. I was thrilled when this person had a huge light go on! I am thrilled to know that the light is slowly becoming brighter with every passing month.

What is it about wholeness that causes us to not see the broken, and the broken to not see wholeness within?

Are we as humans so afraid of our inner selves that we choose to not look at them? Has society sent such a strong message of the correct image we should see in ourselves that most people won’t look at the real image, and when we are forced to see the broken self, it then repulses us? Do we put up a mask in hopes that no one will see the real us? Do we then become fearful of removing the mask we placed on our faces, and hide from ourselves?

Jon said that he was flawed, and worked to correct what nurture had put wrong. He was an example of persistence in healing himself. I learned from him to look inside in ways I hadn’t done before.

I arrive back in my circling to the leadership lessons I’m learning. Maybe it’s because I’ve dwelt in the margins most of my life, and have been mistreated at times. Maybe it’s because I had to grow up in ways that other children weren’t faced with. I did have to sort out what disability meant in an abled family and society. While I’m a happy person, I’m not always positive, and so I was amazed to discover that I naturally see the whole in others. How does that impact everyone I encounter? My attitude might also stem from walking the battlements. What came from doing the work around trauma was peace of mind. What also emerged from this healing was the ability to see the entire person in a clear light. I realize the hole that was deep down can now be understood. The brokenness that is felt, and sometimes seen by the person, and others.

The catch is that we can’t see others in a clear light until we see ourselves in that clear light.

At my almost midway point in this year’s experience, I’m understanding that good leadership is about perspective and being open to the lessons we’ll learn from others, and becoming open to learning ourselves.

We do a dance with our brokenness.

The gift to ourselves is to be able to emerge to heal the brokenness, and to see and feel the release into the healing light. Sometimes the emergence is rapid, and at other times slow and painful. In the end, and with the right vision, we heal. The process is gradual, until one day we wonder about how we got to this new place, and how it is that we find ourselves resting gently on a new shore. We see ourselves new, and feel the wholeness, and ask where did the feeling of brokenness go?

And so it is with lessons. We slowly heal, and with the pain of learning from our errors, we grow. We learn what we can and can’t do. We learn how others are affected when we change. We learn our way into a new understanding, and as we understand, we learn to think it through in new ways, and with new whole insights. Lesson learned.

Apr 29

Purge

I got mad, and I yelled at someone. I don’t like myself when I get that angry, and this weekend it happened, and I’m feeling it.

As I began to focus on the “why” of my anger, and where it came from, I realized that what I’d done to someone I care about was deeply hurtful. Could the healing between us take place? 

I’m still in contemplation and prayer mode around this, and in sitting with what happened, the answer is yes, and you must care for each other to heal the pain, the wound, and the heart.

Learning about Relationships

My mother was big on keeping peace in the home. So, like with most parents, “say I’m sorry” was often used. The problem with that term is that most kids just say it and move forward. Children aren’t really taught about what it really means. I was told that if you say that you are sorry for something, you should work to not do it again. In theory, that is a nice thought. With most humans, we have to learn it by doing it wrong a few times, and then getting it right eventually. My mother also told me to think about it. That was actually helpful, and I could pocket it in my head and let it percolate on low and quiet until it made sense to me.

What does sorry mean? It means that you’ve thought about it, and you won’t do it again. Working towards what will become an apology means that you go deep into the soul and do the work that will enable you to purge your behavior of the wrongdoing. Jon was really good at this. Before I met him, I had the ability to go deep within and do the thinking, and to sit with my thoughts. What Jon taught me was the ability to root it out of myself. He taught me about purging oneself of one’s flaws. When he said that he wouldn’t do it again, he meant it. He’d purge himself of the behavior.

My mother might have wanted me to say the words and make nice. She wanted me to think about things. I needed to purge myself of the behavior and mean it to the core.

Some Rules

Forgiveness is a process of recognition and acceptance: recognition of what we did, and the acceptance of why we did it, and how we’ll work to repair it. It should be done between those affected. When we put it out for public consumption, it creates more damage. Keep if off threads and other forms of social media. There are some hurts and pain that need to be dealt with quietly and in private. Think about what you are posting, and why. To forgive each other is a process, and it takes time and deep thought. I don’t post things that are super personal. It tends to backfire!

Take your time to think, and to act. You most likely got into the mess you’re in because you didn’t think, or because you acted rapidly. Fast action creates further issues. Fast action is often impulsive. Sleep on it, get some distance, and then when calmer thoughts prevail, thoughtfully respond.

Reflecting

The sun is out today, and I am inside thinking and doing the work of Monday. I’ll take a walk, and I’ll focus on what I did that is causing me to feel awful: I got angry at a friend when I should have shut my mouth and listened. It wasn’t a good thing. Getting yelled at isn’t a good thing; doing the yelling isn’t a good thing. Being able to contemplate and forgive is a wonderful thing. Saying, and writing an apology is a needful ability in our lives. Accepting the apology will keep peace and purge the soul of the negative feelings. It’s all about the deep, inner purge.

Apr 1

Legacies

The past few weeks have been centered on what I want to both leave behind and create as the leader of a small church group. My thoughts have taken me to the legacies we each receive and leave as we journey in life.

Over the years I had not given it much thought because I have no biological children, and aren’t legacies what you leave for them? I will leave this world as I came into it: unconnected. Maybe that is not an accurate way of looking at it. We can build deep connections during our lives. We may or may not exit with deep connections. It’s up to us to build connections, and to pass them on: legacies.

I suppose this is why we focus on leaving something behind, so that we can mark our connection to the world we’ve lived in. My thinking about all of this changed about seven years ago. Now I am preparing for a new life journey that is opening up, and once again asking myself what I’ll be leaving behind. It is causing me to explore new possibilities, and to think along new lines.

As I look back on others who have left their mark on this planet, I think of my parents. They touched many lives, and they never gloated about it. It was always done in a manner of simple quietness and generosity. I will never know how far their lives reached into others’ lives. That is a good thing, and it has served as an example to me: do it quietly and leave no trace.

I think of others who have touched my life, and it seems to always play out in the same manner. It is a quiet sense of doing something behind closed doors and out of the public eye. I owe these men and women so much.

Legacies can serve as gifts or not-so-pleasant packages of regret. I hope that what I leave will be the gift package wrapped up in a pretty, fluffy bow.

How does one leave a legacy? I think by doing the best they can. And in many situations, it turns out to be a neutral desire to do good in the world. Parents raise children who step out into the world and contribute in unforeseen ways. I’d venture a guess that most Nobel Peace Prize winners didn’t set the goal to win that prize: their work won it for them. At some point in a person’s life, the work that they are doing becomes bigger than they are. Mother Teresa is such a person. A lesser-known Nobel laureate is John Nash. His life was portrayed in the film A Beautiful Mind, and his greatest work was in mental health. That was not his area of expertise.

One legacy I cherish is the legacy of music my parents created in their family. My parents had decided before marriage that music would be a primary happening in our home. My father was a pianist, and my mother sang. We all sang. We each did other musical things as well. Of all the legacies left to me, music is the one that has affected me the most. Singing and the sounds of music have shaped my life. Even my wedding reception ended with music, and I found myself singing without a care on a cozy December evening in 1998. Music was just what my family did.

I’ve written about the different paths we travel in our life journeys. Each journey unfolds to teach us new thoughts about ourselves and our greater lives. I don’t know where I’m headed on this new path—I do know it will be a good place, and I’ll do my best to make it count. I understand that I needed to heal, and to leave the battlement to get to where I’m headed. The courage to heal came from my listening to my body, my heart, and my head. I followed that path of knowledge and now stand with a new path facing me. Where will I go? 

Mar 11

Slipping into Chaos

I’m in mourning. As I sit here in The Netherlands and observe a nation I was once so proud to call my own, I can no longer utter words of pride. Oh, USA, where have you gone to? It used to be that I would want to visit, and to eat my way from one place to another. Now, I wonder what will be there for me when I board my flight in May to visit.

As an expatriate, I’ve chosen to live here because life is better for me here. I can get a bus, and then a train, and get anywhere. I can walk from point to point knowing that I can be independent.

I decided to stay here on this side of the pond after my husband’s death. I needed time to think, and this turned out to be a good place to do the thinking.

In staying here, I once again committed to put down my roots here. Now, here I am, watching from a distance as a land I was once proud to call mine slips into chaos. 

My heart is heavy as I watch in sadness as nations react and wonder about the why of it all. History is happening before us. What will we do about it? There are no easy answers to this question.

Maybe this is about choosing to look at the reality of it all and not deny what is happening. While we can allow ourselves to feel the sadness of it all, just mourning the loss of what once was isn’t enough. 

Earlier today as I scrolled my Facebook page, I became so aware of how those posts don’t change much. I’m placed in a position to feel compassion for many, and yet the words don’t help me to find a path through.

I’ve posted about our disappearing villages, finding sanctuary, and breaking away from the trauma of life events. As I write this, I know these things matter, and I also know it feels as if it is not enough.

Once again, I return to the things that guide my life: service to others, listening to others, and enabling others to look deep into themselves.

Right now, the Christian world celebrates Lent. Most people understand Lent as a time to give something up. What if we add more compassion, more service to others, and move charitable giving into the mix? This year, after much contemplation, I added rather than removed. I started a few days late, due to my uncertainty about what I needed to do for myself to grow in new ways.

As I sit here and write the words, I’m finding that while I’m mourning this loss of a nation, I’m able to face the collapse in a healthier way. I’m also able to act and not panic. Where we’ll all be in the future is an unknown. We may or may not be able to control some of the choices we must make.

I think about my passport. I think about how I used to look at it, and all the stamps I have in it from places I’ve been. I think about my past passports, and how they were also filled with stamps from wonderful places. There are places I suspect I won’t be visiting again. I choose to believe it can get better. I choose to believe that if I do my small part, it will help. I choose to hold my head high and face this all honestly. I choose hope.

Feb 25

One Wish, Please (Revisit)

Originally posted on April 4, 2023.

We watch as suffering comes over the world. A mother cries for her lost child. A father mourns the death of his son, who was sent off to fight a war that should have never been. A parent mourns the loss of the son or daughter they believed they had in order to discover the new trans child they will get to love. A child endures bullying at home, while another child becomes the bully at school. Somewhere in a police station, a human being’s rights are violated. Marchers descend on a capitol in hopes of bringing a message of solidarity with those on the margins. A young boy witnesses the death of his friend on the streets of the inner city. We become one of six. There is trauma in all of this. 

It seems that the cycle never ends, despite the cries of the injured and the questioning of parents, and others who care about the victims of what can’t be stopped. If only the emotional pain would end. Life doesn’t offer that. We protest the needless suffering, bigotry, senseless acts of violence, and raise the question of where and how it all began. Ultimately it begins in the home. 

If I could wish one thing for the world we inhabit, it would be to have functional homes, where each human being is loved, honored, respected, and has a recognized voice. A home where each child is raised to enter the world as a functional adult who is ready to take their place in society and contribute to making the world a better place. What a wish! I’m not wishing for utopia. I’m wishing for something better: a healthy peace for all. It starts in homes. Oh, I want to see this happen! 

A home with a loving parent(s) who offers up a platter of love, protection, and acceptance to a child so that they can become who they were born to be. I salute the courageous! I honor those who try to learn and understand what might be different to them. I honor the parent who says “I don’t understand, and I’m committed to learning” when their LGBTQ2s child comes to them with fear of the consequences of coming out: first to themselves, and then to others. 

I applaud the enabled person who struggles to meet daily challenges in an abled world. The parent who shepherds the child in the hard times as well as the good times. Homes need to be safe havens for all of us. 

I’m not building to a kumbaya moment here—that takes a great deal of work. I’m building to something else: peace. The peace-filled home that spills over into the neighborhood, then the city, and spreads out to all corners of all nations: it begins within our homes. 

Saying it is one thing, and implementing it is quite another process. My husband’s psychiatrist once made the point that all voices in a family need to be heard, acknowledged, and respected. Parenting isn’t about giving orders; it’s about guiding, setting boundaries, and being willing to have hard conversations with growing children of all ages. Parents create a micro-community in their homes when they commit to bring tiny humans to dwell with them.

It’s about accepting your child for who they are, and where they are, offering a safe space to explore their identity, speak their point of view, and explore their own values. Eventually, children need to make their way out of the home and into the world. Happy, healthy adults have experienced many of these things.

Mentoring begins from birth. Mentoring is about parents doing things with kids, making it fun, teaching them the value of working for something, and waiting for results. It’s about offering children healthy choices so that as they grow, they develop empathy, social skills, insight, and inner strength.

Boomers were raised by parents who dealt with the Depression and WWII. Their children faced the 60s and 70s and began to question the culture of parents and grandparents who came out of a more authoritarian view. And then, things started moving faster. I believe that with Gen X and beyond, we’ve never quite caught up. Time has sped up, society has changed radically, and with it, the home has been rocked on its foundation. There is a real need to re-examine relationships and to have hard conversations about what works and doesn’t work.

One of the consequences of this radical shift is that parents say “yes” when they need to say “no.” Yes and no have to do with setting a healthy boundary. It is about helping a developing child understand long-term choices and offering the mentoring to enable them to think it through for themselves. Now more than ever, children need the skill of thinking it out for themselves! The thinking starts when parents offer up limits such as a healthy diet that incorporates varied food choices, or reading to children daily and offering up experiences that teach the young child to choose good and age-appropriate things. It’s a confidence builder. It continues as the child matures and is able to make task-appropriate choices that will enable them to learn and grow. When a child experiences failure, with a parent encouraging them to give it another go around, they will! I also understand that some parents are faced with needing the village to step in while they work three jobs. Who we put in our villages can enable parents to have that needed assistance to raise the child to healthy adulthood. Successful single parents and two-parent families have a village to back them up.

I acknowledge that I’m speaking from a point of privilege. I grew up within a home where there were two parents, and they were able to provide the basics but not the luxuries. Money was tight and there was a village of extended family and community.

With the way things have sped up, it is essential to cultivate relationships that include extended family, friends, community members, schools, and charitable organizations. A parent may not know their village until a crisis happens.

My wish includes people sharing a meal and coming together to learn from one another: people who discover that in diversity, there are both differences and sameness. The sameness begins with recognizing that we are all humans residing on this pale blue dot. The diversity offers up the gift of human understanding, culture, and a differing world view that teaches us to learn, listen, and understand. In table fellowship, we offer up the gift of being heard. It is listening that bridges gaps, strengthens the person, enters the home, and moves forward to influence the neighborhood, the community, and eventually the world.

Jan 21

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Author’s Pick: Dancing in the Sunlight

My greatest joy as a therapist is to witness as those I work with make discoveries that alter and transform their lives. This piece, originally posted January 27, 2024, was such a celebration of a client’s discovery. Come, celebrate in the sun with me! 

-Gail

The paths we walk are each different, and sometimes we are so engaged with our own selves that we are brought up short when others make fantastical progress. And so, it was a client this week, who went to that place. For some time, I’ve noticed that movement from the past and into the present. Then, like the wind carrying the leaves to new places, the miracle of change blew in, in its full color!

“I want to know more about…” The words caught me off guard. I’d hoped for these words, and as a therapist I understand that I can only watch, and lead, this person to new waters. Drinking is their choice. All a sudden, they were ready for the next step, and it was a moment to bask in, not for myself but for someone who has done some very hard work.

Insight therapy is about becoming acquainted with the you that is locked deep inside and for whatever reason hasn’t been able to dance in the sun. This week a client made the break to enter into the warm sunlight. This week, someone stepped off the old conveyor belt and into the unknown. They don’t know that yet; I do. I’ll continue to watch and to learn from them. I try to learn from everyone. Some of the lessons are easy, and others are hard.

There is something about growth that has always energized me. I’ve never been able to pin it down; I just understand that it causes me to burn with passion. Whether it is myself or others, it is the process and progress that ignite amazing things in our souls. It is a soul journey that takes us to new places of the heart and mind. Growth feeds our souls and our spirits. It causes us to gaze back for the WOW moments, and to look from our boats out on the river of life. Yes, we have crossed into new places: new territory that opens its arms to welcome us to a new and brave uncertainty. Sometimes, we’re on the river, and at other times we’re inland. It seems that our souls intuit where we need to be and move us to the places of exploration.

Growth is friendly, painful, and wonderful, and it is always a challenge. Growth calls us to the crossroads of being and enables us to question our past and our present, and then wisdom takes hold and we understand that we can’t go back. Going back is self-betrayal.

When you see this on someone’s face or hear it in their questions, you understand what this work is all about. It isn’t about the research, the studying you’ve done that has delivered you to this point in time. It is about the gift of standing with someone in their courage, and having your eyes opened to their sun dance. I can’t claim this dance; all I can do is witness what is now, and hope for what will become.

I entered therapy to grow, to change, and to discover my own path in life. I became a therapist for reasons I thought were good, and I thought that I would walk a different path than I have walked. Tonight, as I type these words, I marvel at my own journey and maybe, just maybe, I’m doing my own dance in the sun.

As I sit here, the tears come, and I’m gratified by them. They are tears of joy and thankfulness. I’ve been given a gift of a dance in the sun, and I feel alive!

Jan 8

The Getaway

Happy New Year! I think I’m ready for 2025. The rain is falling. I’m in my cozy home; the wind is blowing hard outside, and I have new plans for the year.

Working more hours is causing me to need to take more time off to care for my own mental health. I figured this out over the Christmas holiday week. I decided to go to Norway for a tiny five-day break. What happened there taught me that I needed to treat myself as well as I tell my clients to treat themselves, and so, this year I’ll take more time off to care for myself.

Maybe last year’s learning about my own personal growth experience did the trick. When you deal with the deep stuff inside, you also come to accept the need for better self-care.

I had not taken a break in some time, and between falling and having to walk out of the rehab center, and everything else, I decided to brave the travel mess and get on a bird. Because I stayed on the continent, there was not the hassle of passport control. Norway was delightful, and so were my friends.

Why do we need breaks? The obvious response is to recharge and reset. There is nothing like doing nothing! Maybe I got too relaxed, and that is not helpful. Or, maybe I haven’t been that relaxed in years and forgot what it felt like. I think that’s what we need to do on a getaway.

The above statement causes me to ask the question: How much relaxation is the right amount? How do I learn to recreate and recharge, and to do it in a reasonable amount of time? As someone who wasn’t raised on vacations, I haven’t learned this vital skill. How do I learn this? Well, Gail, you learn it by doing it, planning for it, and building the new habit.

Staycations won’t work because I need to leave my place of employment—my home. I need to get out from my office. That means leaving, and going to a place that isn’t my bed. I need to not cook, to not see my office, and to find a place to be myself.

I’ll need to come up with some local, and not-so-local, places that offer me peace and a sweet break. The hitch is that I need to be able to much of it independently. I don’t see like I once did, and I think I may be scaring people. I know I need to have help, as that is the way my life is now. All I want to do is sit and veg out. I do enough at home! 

So, no crazy destinations with things to see and do. I need to teach myself to be still, and to be pampered. A spa is really sounding nice. You get pampered at the spa.

I have a lovely year ahead. I could take mental health days, and just sit outside! The glitch in doing this is that it can only be done in the summer, and when it is sunny and warm. I guess for this one I need a new umbrella for the sun. Hmmm… purple or blue sound like nice colors to consider for this.

The obstacle to all of this is that it has to be implemented by me. Isn’t that what it’s about? Taking charge of our own well-being? I’m learning to care for myself in new ways. I’m realizing that my clients need a therapist who honors her own needs, and who will get away.

I may take off not only US holidays: I may take off some Dutch ones as well. Yes, this also requires planning, and in the end, it is good for me. Setting boundaries is a good thing to encourage the wonderful time I need for myself to refresh.

Happy 2025, Gail. The new year is looking like a brighter year.

Dec 17

Closed Doors

My therapist said, “This is the you that you are without the trauma.” This is the person that I am now. It is a strange feeling. I notice myself reacting calmly to what once upset me.

It’s been twenty-four hours since I heard those words, and I find myself mourning the past, and wondering about the changes that have come about. It is a gift that I want, and yet I find myself asking the question: Would I change it if I could go back in time? That door is closed because I’ve been formed by life events. I’m a stronger soul for it. The trauma has vanished, and though I’ll know of what happened, I won’t feel the pain of it.

If the work around the trauma is deep and well thought out, the result is that it leaves our lives, and in its place a calm and quiet comes into being. I’ve not had this type of peace in my life… ever. The adjustment is mind-blowing and surprising to me.  

As I thought about things last night, after my client sessions were done and the dishes washed, that is when I let myself relax into the newness of what is happening to me. The soldier really left the battlement because I told them to go. The therapist keeps checking in with me, and at first I thought, why is this being done? I do this work. And I didn’t think it all the way through when it came to myself. It was the past talking. I’ve changed. In the beginning I told the therapist that I was presenting myself as a person who needed help, and that I was going to be the client/patient in this situation. I tried to leave the therapist at the door. Maybe I left just a tad too much at the door. I’m glad I did. I’m grateful that I didn’t try to become a therapist in my own therapy sessions. I believe it made all the difference.

The above doesn’t mean that I had not done much of the work before I entered the therapy process to discharge what I shouldn’t be discharging without guidance. You know the saying “Physician, heal thyself,” or the one about a lawyer defending themselves? Well, I’m not a fool, and I know better than to think I can see it all and be aware of everything. And so, I left my therapy hat at the door.

Some people who are receiving ketamine therapy for the treatment of depression say that they can’t remember the depression. They know they deal with depression; it feels as if it was never present. I’m not certain that I’d argue that depression in and of itself is traumatizing. On the other hand, I can argue that psychosis is traumatizing, and that being in a hospital mental ward is traumatizing.

The closed door that separates those on the outside from those struggling to relocate themselves can be traumatizing. When the brain tells us that our reality is off, and we know that the “off” thing is not supposed to be that way, it can get very confusing and scary, and the trauma of the inside ward might not be such a bad place for someone—if debriefing is a part of the after care. I’ve learned this truth from listening to my husband and others. Clearing trauma is the same way: debriefing is needed.

Jon and I had more than one conversation about the trauma associated with a psychotic episode. He shared with me the horrors of what happened to him during the single episode, and his recovery from it. He was never hospitalized. At the end of his life, he wondered if he should check himself into the hospital for a short stay. It didn’t happen.  

This brings up the question of whether it helps to seek hospitalization. Sometimes, the depression is so debilitating that the person needs to be in the hospital, and then process the results of the stay with renewed energy and insight. The risk is that, when the person is discharged, they have the energy to carry out a plan. When you can’t get out of bed, you can’t think well enough to formulate the way forward. That door is only open when energy is available for that type of thinking. A good discharge plan can serve to help someone through this phase. Remember that suicide happens when the resources run out. Two things that lower the possibility of suicide are a feeling of a sense of belonging somewhere, and resources that can help to support the needed issues.

Living without the trauma is new, and so, like someone who is getting good treatment for depression, good post-trauma work should include the adjustment phase of the process.

So why bring all of this up in a post about healing from trauma? Trauma alters lives and minds go to strange places, and while I’m celebrating the strangeness of it all, and moving forward in my life, someone else might not choose to cope in the same way. I can see how someone could become overwhelmed by it all. Now what do I do? I spent years stuffing it all down. I don’t need to do what I once did to cope. I understand how someone might feel a wee bit out of place in their world.

Accepting new things and new ways of being can be challenging for people, especially if you don’t like change in your life.

I sit here with my mind free of what was. I wonder where all this newness is going to take me. I remember the past life, where the trauma came to greet me so often, and I realize that the timing was just right for me to do the work I needed to do. What an open door.

Dec 11

The Man Who Never Hit Me

In the summer of 2016, I began to contemplate divorcing my husband. It was about economics, and my survival. I’d had to unofficially shut my life down for him. As I sat in my rose room and thought about the consequences of what I was thinking of doing, I had hard questions to answer.

I needed to work. My work enlivened me and brought me fulfillment. I needed to work because we could use the money. I needed to work because I missed seeing people and helping them to explore their lives.

He couldn’t deal with not having me in a constant support role. I was wilting on the vine, and it didn’t feel good. Once again, the narcissism of bipolar was rearing its ugly head.

So, why did I stay? I suppose you might say I stayed because I knew how sick he was, and what could happen if I left. I could have left and returned to the US and begun a new life. I stayed because my bottom line for remaining in the marriage was physical abuse.

Creepy? Yes, and no. He never hit me, but he had thrown things at walls and screamed at me. I had the emotional black-and-blue bruises to show for it; I had the environmental depression to show for it. But—he never hit me. I lived with a charged phone and a credit card that could be used at a moment’s notice to escape the marriage. I could grab my fully loaded purse and walk out the front door of the house never looking back. Like so many women, I’d leave with the clothes on my back.

He told me that he’d commit suicide before he would hit me. On August 28th of that year, he made his exit, and I didn’t need to return to the question of leaving him. And after twenty-two years of being together, he’d never hit me.

And yet, he did. I just didn’t have the photos of the physical bruises to show for it. He’d hit my soul, and my heart. Sometimes, the only way to see the damage is to see it from a distance. That view came after several years of being a widow, and before I returned to the work I love.

Now, eight years later, I know what it looks like, sounds like, and feels like to hear the words spoken by someone. I get the hesitancy to leave. And yet, the urgency to do so is present. It isn’t until you’re out that you fully understand the scope of the damage.

Well-meaning friends and family often judge and urge the person to leave—to get free of that lousy, no- good-person. It isn’t that easy. It’s super complex.

Most abuse victims do try to leave, and wind up going back because they haven’t got a plan of successful escape. Unless they’re fortunate enough to have a strong support system, leaving fails. They return because it is better to have shelter than to live in the uncertainty of the “what if and what will I do” type of thinking. Sometimes nice things look better than the one bedroom or studio flat that you have to take to escape. A homeless shelter isn’t very appealing either.

How do people really leave for good, and how do they start over? I’ll offer up one starting point: https://www.womenshealth.gov/relationships-and-safety/domestic-violence/leaving-abusive-relationship.

A Google search turns up many resources. Local women’s organizations are also a good place to begin to learn.

I’m not going to tell you how to leave. I am going to state that the bruises on the inside show through just as much as those on the outside. The makeup for the inner concealment tends to not work because it comes out in how one behaves.

I think back on the work I’ve done to heal my soul. It’s been a long, winding road of a soul journey to stare at the new woman in the mirror.

Oct 21

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Healing and Icebergs

I stand in an empty place. The battlement and castle that once stood as a fortress have been carried off to a place of full discharge. There are no loyal soldiers here anymore. They’ve been honorably discharged, and they served well.

It is a peaceful feeling to have said goodbye to all of them; they were tired and in need of the rest of the valiant warriors they were.

At the beginning of the discharge process, I was sent something by my therapist, and it made me cry. It felt safe, and as if the process I was about to undergo was one of healing. It describes the therapy process well, and it fits my way of thinking. I’ve fallen into a mad crush with the iceberg, and I have my own whimsical vision of what she looks like. I want you to know about this gem of a description of therapy, and so, I’ll share it here.

THE ICEBERG

A tale of therapy

Author unknown

Once upon a time, in a place at the end of the earth, there lived an iceberg. The iceberg was quite a small one, part of a much larger one from which she had broken away and floated free in the cold water.

Sometimes she found herself brushing up against other icebergs, but she learned to steer clear after a particularly painful bump during a patch of stormy weather. On the whole, she managed to stay out of trouble, watching the weather carefully and adjusting her course to suit the conditions. She was weary and lonely and wanted to find a place where she could be with other icebergs who wouldn’t hurt her and where she could relax a bit.

Now we all know about icebergs and how that part that shows above the water is only a very small part of the whole. This particular iceberg was bright on the surface, and when the sun shone on her, she sparkled and twinkled and danced about on the water, bobbing up and down as if she didn’t have a care in the world.  This was the part that showed above the water, but below there was a great weight of ice into which lots of debris had become frozen. All the flotsam and jetsam of her own and other people’s lives had become entangled and was firmly lodged into this heavy submerged part; it was slowly dragging the tiny tip of the iceberg right under the water. Steering herself had become more and more difficult and dangerous.

Then one day the iceberg found a small sheltered bay on the edge of the land and she floated into it without even realizing where she was going. She just felt she was safe at last and able to stop worrying about bumping into other icebergs for a while. She rested herself and basked in the warmth of the sun that shone on her. When night came, she thought that she would find that she had floated out again into the dangerous waters, and every new day, when the sun came out again, she marvelled at it and wondered if it could possibly last. And it did.

After some time, she really began to trust the constancy of the sun and found that she didn’t need to worry about it anymore. Sometimes a cloud passed in front of the sun, but it soon passed and afterwards the sun seemed all the warmer by comparison.

The longer she stayed in the sheltered bay, the warmer the water became, and then a strange thing began to happen. The edge of the ice beneath the water began to melt, freeing some of the debris trapped in it. Every day the sun shone, and the ice melted a little more. The iceberg watched in amazement as bits floated to the surface; she realized that these were bits of herself that had been submerged for a long time, causing her to feel so heavy, dragging her down. She began to understand why things had been so difficult for her, and she was glad to watch the rubbish drifting away into the wider waters.

The sun’s warmth had also changed the bit of iceberg that showed above the water. The great deep, jagged clefts etched down her sides had been smoothed away by the great rivers of water that streamed down her as she watched the debris floating to the surface. The tip of the iceberg, instead of becoming smaller, had actually become larger as more of herself showed above the water, freed of entanglements.

This affected the iceberg in different ways. At first she found it hard to recognize herself and she wondered if the other icebergs would know her, or if they would notice a change in her. She wondered if her new size would cause her problems when she went back into the wider waters, and if she would be able to steer clear of the other icebergs in quite the same way. But then she realised that, now that she was bigger, she would not need to be so fearful of being bumped or hurt. And, being free of the debris, she would be able to steer more easily and have more choice about the directions in which she moved. She was less likely to be dragged down or tipped over, even if she did occasionally bump into other icebergs. She began to feel more whole, as though the part below the water was less separate from her.

Although there were still some bits of rubbish frozen into her submerged parts, at least she knew they were there and how they might affect her, and that, in time, they, too, might work free and float away. Now, it may seem that all this happened a little too easily, but it was not so. Whilst the iceberg basked in the sun after first finding the sheltered bay, there was a lot of turbulence beneath the surface, and the iceberg was very anxious, not knowing exactly what was going on down below. At times she was frightened of the degree of agitation in the waters and wondered if she would be able to maintain her balance. But all the time the sun kept shining, and that reassured and comforted her and made her feel that, whatever was going on beneath the waters, all was still well above.

When the iceberg had melted enough to free the debris, the disturbed particles began to hurt as they broke free, and the pain was worse as the icy numbness dissolved away. The iceberg was dismayed when she recognized some of the debris that had floated to the surface: bits she didn’t want to see; bits she had forgotten she had picked up on dark and stormy nights; bits she was frightened about and with which she wished she had never come into contact. But she had to admit, they were all parts of her, whether she liked them or not. And the sun still shone.

The sun shone on the good bits and the sun shone on the bad bits; somehow that made the iceberg feel as though things couldn’t be so bad after all. Some of the bad bits didn’t belong to her at all, but were parts of the larger iceberg from which she had broken away. As the debris floated in the water around the iceberg and the sun shone on them, she was able to look at them more closely and see how they had been harming her. She allowed herself to feel angry about the bits that had been attached to her by others and that she had thought were hers. She had always realised something was there, weighing her down, but she had not known what to do about it. Some of the rubbish might even be quite useful, like lots of flotsam washed up on the shore, useful at another time, in another place. It had made her the shape she was and now her shape had changed to something that was much more her own.

The iceberg looked out towards the wider waters and wondered if it was time to risk herself out there. She knew the sun that warmed her would still be shining down on her, and that it did not only shine on the sheltered bay. She still needed the sun and the wind and the rain in order to be fully aware of living, experiencing, and growing.

She felt the breeze stirring around her, tugging gently at her, and she let herself go, with new hope and courage, out into the wider waters.

Oct 14

Pearls

When I was a child, my mother and I went to the Japanese cultural center in San Francisco, and I selected an oyster that had a black pearl inside. Eventually, that pearl was turned into a necklace. My understanding of how pearls are made increased, and I found I related to the pearl in many ways.

As a child, I loved to look at my mother’s pearls, and I enjoyed the box they were laid out in. The pearls lay in a spiral, and I thought they were beautiful. On my wedding weekend, it was those very pearls that made up the “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” The blue were the shoes and the bow on the dress. The borrowed and old were the same things: the pearls. I would inherit her pearls a few years later.

I had purchased my own pearls when I was single, but her pearls had deep meaning to me.

Then there were the engagement pearls: a necklace and a set of earrings and a pearl I had for an engagement ring. The earrings became a part of me and were my favorite things to wear most days. They were a constant reminder of the journey I had taken, and was still continuing on, in my self-discovery. 

During the past few months, as I’ve rediscovered who I am in this phase of my life, I’ve found that my pearl earrings are a reminder of the me I was and the new self I’m evolving into. Discharging loyal soldiers is hard work. I’m finding that, with the healthy goodbyes, there are also some refreshing old yet new hellos. The pearls that had been an old “Gail wardrobe standard” are now a new reminder of the strength that comes from taking it all down and rebuilding. Last week the call within my heart to wear the pearls again could not be ignored.

Engaging in life, with its many colors and possibilities, is a delightful journey, though sometimes we’d rather wish it away and stay cozy in our beds.

The downside of the process I’ve been engaged in is that I must rediscover and claim parts of myself that I haven’t wanted to see and live with.

The upside of discovering the self for the next new time is that it is liberating. It’s kind of like going grey when you’ve been coloring your hair, and you think, “Why didn’t I do this sooner?” We go grey when we’re ready to reveal that part of ourselves. Freedom from the bottle is a liberating experience.

The journey from where I was to where I am now has softened me, taught me patience with others, and enabled me to be called out on my stuff in new ways. We deconstruct and reconstruct in wonderful new ways.

My pearls have been with me for most of my life, and I don’t think I’d want to be without the message they remind me of. Our lives generate the stuff of pearls in all their colors and splendor. I’m glad I have all my pearls, and the memories they hold for me.

Oct 1

I Suppose (Revisit)

Originally posted on July 10, 2023.

Before me is a blank document. What do I put on the page? This time of year used to be gentle; it has become hard. What were once simple lazy days with blue skies have become days of reflection and wondering. I tend to review, explore and wonder where I am now compared to the last year. I suppose that surviving a suicide of a husband will do that to you. I realize that his suicide freed him from a very painful life, and it presented me with a rare gift.

I am not shocked or upset by this thought. He gave me the ability to move forward myself. I was given the time and freedom to explore our relationship in ways I couldn’t do when he was alive. I was an innocent when we got together.

Before I met Jon, I didn’t understand that you could doubt or question someone’s love. Yes, I got that there was love that is dysfunctional: manipulation masking as love, and love that I had not seen. In my life, and in my mind, love was gentle. My relationship with Jon educated me in new ways. 

Relationships teach us the good, bad, and questionable things about ourselves. Living under the same roof brings with it challenges and a need for commitment to the process of growth. If there is one thing that enabled our relationship to last, it was a commitment to growth and exploring the hard things together.

Sometimes we couldn’t resolve an issue in a day, and that was OK. Being in hard places is good for growth and exploration. I learned to become more adept at remaining open to the long-term solution. There are things that only time and deep insight can resolve, and the commitment to do the work “until” is essential to making it work.

The best counsel I got from his psychiatrist was to give him space. OK, I needed to give myself space too. Walking away enabled us to resolve issues faster. I’m thankful for this knowledge, and the gift that it is.

There were times when I wondered if he could love me. The bipolar cut into him in ways that he couldn’t even express. His upbringing cut into his soul in other ways. My heart ached for the both of us at times. After his death, the love question surfaced, and I knew I’d have to face it.

There is a time in the grief process when it all gets put on the chopping block. It all has to go on the block. It is the deep work of grief and the exploration of the shadows that we hide from. If we’re willing to do the hard work of grief, we must extract the ugly, unpleasant stuff and dive in. This is where many stop their work. It is ugly and messy, and do “I” really want to face this truth? My innocence committed me to explore this place of shadows. Sometimes innocence is a great motivator.

Some couples do this hard exploration while they are together in life, and some widows or widowers are forced to do this difficult exploration after the death, and before moving into a new relationship. I had to cross into this place after, and I’m glad I did. My willingness to do the work didn’t make it any easier. I’ve always invested in self-improvement and growth.

What bipolar takes from relationships is debatable and unique to each person. It took my innocence. In saying that, I’ve had to admit that while I love Jon, he opened my eyes to a very dark side of the world. I would not have chosen to go into the dark abyss of a hell few can explain, and fewer still can understand, and yet I went, and I find that I don’t regret the journey to this place. It is a gift I wasn’t looking for, and I’m richer for having taken the time to open this gift.

The gift of knowing you are loved comes in many forms. In the first few years after his death, my reflections led me to explore the “he didn’t love me” side of things. Sitting with the doubt, the hurt of things done, and understanding who he was deep within, moved me to the place of love. I came to a realization that through all of it he tried his best, and so did I. There was love in the tiny things he tried to do. There was love in the sneaky things he pulled off; there was love in the gifts he thoughtfully gave, and in a mixed-up way, even in the way he ended his life. In that velvet way, I didn’t even notice the change I’d made in my thinking. Wow!

When I think about what it means to show love in deep ways, he did his best to do that. I accept what he wasn’t capable of doing. I can also view my side of things with more realism. I can take responsibility for the failures and the successes of my part of the relationship, and some of it hurts.

I suppose this journey is about being able to find the deep peace that I’ve needed to put things to rest. Coming to this knowing also brings up the fact that nothing is ever at an end point. Only the final eye closure can and will bring things to an end.

I find that I’m standing taller; I’m wiser, and at the same time I question more.

As I pass into this new place where the gifts are for opening and exploring, I turn, look back, and realize that the lazy summers of exploration have gifted me some cloud-filled summer days. I suppose that’s just fine.

Sep 18

In Hearts, Homes, and around the Table

When I was growing up and attending church as a child, there was a song we sang that had the line “kindness begins with me” in it. For much of my life, the act of simple kindness was not something I experienced. In the past few years, this has changed.

Since my fall in February that resulted in a broken femur, I’ve had the experience of kindness. It might also be possible that I’m more open to such acts now.

Maybe I’ve healed enough to allow kindness into my life. Maybe I’ve softened. Or maybe I have drawn people in that are kind. Whatever the reason for all of this is, I’m willing to accept it, and explore it.

As a disabled child and younger adult, I was faced with people who were less than understanding, and who didn’t understand my abilities and saw only what they felt I couldn’t do. Not having a fully abled body does not mean I am not fully capable. Being treated as such really hurts the soul.

I’m coming to believe that kindness is an attitude that we both learn and come to understanding within ourselves, and our own motivation for behaving in a kind manner.

There are some people who are naturally willing to give of themselves to others. The compassion switch gets turned on at a young age because they are raised to notice people in need. There are others who learn to offer help because they feel that is the proper thing to do. Another group of people I’ve come to know have a desire to give and serve others because they’ve developed gratitude and also thankfulness for what they’ve been given. The result is that they want others to enjoy the pleasures of life in simple ways.

I grew up in a household where we were taught to give to others because they had less. While that is all well and good, it builds an attitude of privilege that is not healthy.

Since my fall, I’ve encountered small acts of kindness that have caused me to grow into being kind because I want to see others receive from me what I can give to them. Sometimes I’m sneaky about it, and at other times I’m learning to offer and allow the offer to be accepted or rejected.

I think about things that have happened to me.

A recruiter could have but didn’t blow me off when I needed extra assistance to get onboard with a new contractor. A home health care worker made sure I had what I needed when I needed it so that I could work from my home. A nurse took the extra time to come in and show kindness when she could have been in someone else’s room. A guy paid for a meal before I could get my card out to pay for it. People didn’t complain when I was walking in unfamiliar areas and had to go slower. They chose to walk behind instead of pass me.

Kindness is a simple act: a smile, a friendly hello, the offer of a glass of water or other drink. Kindness is radical hospitality at its best.

Kindness comes from the heart, and it begins in homes. It begins around the table where we laugh, cry, share, and come to understandings that we haven’t experienced before.

Kindness is an art and a way of being. It begins with one person deciding that today they will go out and make their community a better place by doing something simple for others.

Kindness enables us to build stronger homes, communities, and lives, and it is not always easy but well worth the effort. It begins in our hearts.

Aug 20

Chasing the Fly (Revisit)

Originally posted on June 12, 2023.

I’ve been wondering why there is a rise in stress and anxiety among younger adults. At first, I thought it was because they didn’t learn to play and create as my generation had done. That is one part of the problem. Then I noticed the influence of marketing on these kids. Maybe, and maybe not. As I dug deeper, there was a realization that in competition everyone had to get a trophy, and be special. The topper was the safety issue. When we can’t hear opposing views, something is terribly wrong. Yes, this is going to be a wild post. 

The last few weeks, parents have been posting on Facebook about their kid graduating from kindergarten. KINDERGARTEN!!!!! Get real, people. When, and how, did this become a thing? Personally, I think it’s a retail scam, kind of like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Let’s promote buying something, and don’t forget “Black Friday,” which has now left the U.S. and is doing a migration to Europe. But I digress. Back to what is going on here: adults with anxiety, teens, tweens, and kids with anxiety and depression. Oh, I won’t go down that rabbit hole. 

My thoughts wandered to a question that couldn’t stay buried in the rubble of the mind: Have people become so set on getting ahead and providing all good things that all good things are becoming lost on the way to the getting of them? (I need Bill Bryson to do the research on this and put it in a book so that I can synthesize it and digest how we got to this topsy-turvy place on this hot rock of ours.)

Then my editor told me about Jonathan Haidt. His research is brilliant. I spent the weekend devouring two of his books. They provided some grounded answers along with some thought-provoking questions. 

I think of parents over-scheduling children and not allowing time for relaxation, creativity, and free play. Sorry, people, “play dates” are not free play. There you have it!!!! Play dates!!!! OK, so I’m from a different generation when kids did really crazy things, like when we went to our friends’ homes on the spur of the moment because we could walk or ride our bikes there. When my mother called my friend’s mother, telling her that my friend’s brother had fallen out of the tree at my home, her mother yelled at us to “stay in the house, don’t go outside until I get back!!!!” Yes, George had a broken arm; Jenny and I remained at her place, and our mothers remained calm but concerned. We understood that play had its risks, and falling out of a tree or falling off a bike were some of the risks we took. About a year later, I was the injured person. While at a friend’s home, I broke my collar bone. Life happens. We didn’t stop doing creative things. We explored and discovered things about life. When riding down a steep slope, you must slow the bike and not fly over the handlebars. I rode the bike to my friend’s home, where her mother took a look at things. Yup, I needed a doctor for this one. It hurt. I was OK, and I’d be out of play for a bit.   

This brings me to the thought that we’re sending the wrong message to children now. Life isn’t safe. There should be healthy conflict and exploration in our upbringing. We should be teaching children to explore new things and new places. They need to discuss all sides of an argument and search out opposing points of view. Are we learning to think? Are our children and grandchildren learning to think? 

In 1999 my husband and I accepted a job assignment in Germany. We risked and stayed here in Europe. I didn’t know what I’d be facing as a disabled person here in Europe. What I found was a freedom I’d never had before. In 2016 I made the choice to remain here as a widow. It’s been a challenge, and I’m glad I’ve done it. It was a risk that has been stressful at times but worth the life balance I have because I chose to remain here. My childhood of roaming free, playing freely, and learning from it all provided some useful building blocks. 

During the last thirty years, some of those freedoms have come and gone for many children. In 2018, Utah, followed by Oklahoma and Texas, passed “free range” laws that restore the rights of parents and children to be on their own, just as I was when I was younger. It will be interesting to follow children in these states as they mature. Will these kids display lower levels of anxiety and depression? Will they be capable of riding a bus on their own? Will they know more of their neighborhoods? Will these laws get kids outdoors? Will they exercise more, and will obesity in children decline?  

Will children begin to have less homework and more free time to create?  

When I think about why I began to write this over a week ago, I realize that I want children to experience the fun and delight to be had in life. Remember the Dr. Seuss book Oh, the Places You’ll Go? If children can go to wonderful places, will things become better for them? Will depression and anxiety levels lower both in schools and homes? This would be great for children, and yes—bad for all the pill pushers hoping to get parents thinking that their kids need drugs when they may not need them. Before you scream, I’m pro wise use of medication if it’s needed. To quote one of my favorite books from childhood, and a book that takes the reader on an adventure with a boy and a fly: 

“I sat at the lake. 

I looked at the sky, 

And as I looked,

A fly went by.” 

(From Mike McClintock’s A Fly Went By.)

My hope and wish is that children will once again have life adventures where they will learn, explore, question, and connect with life in real ways. Let them sit by the lake and chase a fly.

May 7

And Then, There’s That Dream

Yesterday I made an attempt at going outside, getting in a car, walking more than I should have, and returning home. It didn’t tire me out: it caused my left leg to tire. I’m not there yet. 

I feel like the kid in the back seat of the car asking “are we there yet?” I have to keep reminding myself that I get there when I get there.

Watching myself walk is forcing me to listen to my body in new ways. As I do the required exercising and walk on the treadmill, I need to listen to the sound of my feet as I step. Am I stepping evenly, or am I dragging my feet? What this is causing me to do is to feel how I walk. I have to notice the tiny things that I’ve never noticed before.

Last night as I slept, I dreamt that I was walking around a track, and I was in a race. My self-talk was that I needed to slow it all down, and that this was not a race. I woke up to my 7:00 AM alarm knowing I’d just processed what I was thinking and doing. I felt called out by my own actions. When I told the physical therapist, she just laughed. Not funny: she’s getting to know me too well.

With all the exercising I must do to heal this, I’m feeling cramped. It’s an hour’s work. I find myself wanting the time to expand when time is closing in on me. There is so much to do, and not enough time in a day. I’m feeling the crash of the fall once again, and this time around I’m thinking that I need to slow it down. I can’t slow it down, and that dream tells me to slow myself down. I want chocolate in some wonderful form. I know I can’t eat my way through this, and the more I walk, the better off I am. This is stress bleeding its way through.

The grass is never as green on the other side of the fence. I understand that once I’m done with the rehab process, it will be something else that pops up in my face.

So, how does one deal with the avalanche of life and keep calm? I’m finding that my quiet time is valuable, and that I have to create quality time. I no longer have the time I once had post Jon’s death. This makes me think about the grief process, and how we go from the funeral bubble to getting back on the conveyor belt of life. 

Wow! When I think about the eight years I’ve been in widow/single status, I am blown away by what I’ve done, and how I’ve changed. 

Getting back up is a process that we do on our own terms. Society demands that we move faster than we should move. It makes me think of the woman who told her friend that she had six months, and then it all had to be back to normal. Six months? That isn’t even enough time to figure out that you are a mess due to the grief you’re feeling.

And then, there’s that dream…

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